Spider's lessons were always valuable, survival-focused, but they could rarely separate themselves from certain unpleasant truths. To live under her, her many children lived ever close to these truths. Death, corruption, sickness, spiders made their home where brainless flies gathered in plenty. And they made their living around exploiting their limited psychology. Flies couldn't understand how their friends always ended up getting caught in webs, they just weren't built that way. The way of the spider was to always be able to outsmart, or else out-wait your prey. You might go hungry for a week, but you would not die, if only you had the patience to simply sit by your trap and wait.
With these tenets in mind, Recluse got to work. Under cover of the massive gunfight that had ensued, everyone was focused on Kali. Nobody had time for a pile of trash moving imperceptibly through the shadows. At the front door, two skids of cheap soy were now rigged to blow, sentencing anybody who tried to leave through the doors without permission to a fiery, soy-filled afterlife. At the back door, crates of who-knows-what, now with remotely detonated C4 added to their cargo. The bombs were a last resort scenario, intended to keep the run self-contained. Anybody tries to get out, or unwanted badges try to get in, they ended in a pile of rubble and charred steel. Briefly he thought about cracking one of the loading doors for the Nomad's assault drone, but the timing wasn't right. It had already taken him too long to skulk around the back of the building.
Like a well-fitted puzzle piece, the walkway above was empty. Kali had barreled through it into the room upstairs amidst the shattered glass that had fallen all the way to the floor. It looked like she had danced across the lights in order to land on the walkway... which wasn't a half bad idea. Kali was a loose cannon, but (at least under the divine wind) she could adapt with the best of them. It didn't sound like a good idea, but Recluse would take a leaf out of her book. Traction had come up with a limited plan. He wasn't completely on board with her plans, as a rule. Too much willingness to throw away the lives of her teammates. If you wanted to live, you didn't always follow Traction's plans to the letter. This was as true now as ever. But her plans for Recluse were limited, scornful. As long as something was rigged to blow (and it was) then he wouldn't throw off her plans directly, and thus could avoid an earful later. It was the best of both worlds.
He chose his vantage point carefully. After Kali's ballistic entrance, nobody would be looking up in the ceiling. It was two stories in the air, and that was not where the threat was anymore. The 'threat' had just barrelled headfirst into the lunch room. Nobody noticed the presence-less silence climbing the walkway ropes into the lights up top, and if anybody noticed wires being strung between the hanging lights, it wasn't as important as the muscle and steel that was invading the warehouse presently. From Recluse's new perch, he could see almost everything in the main area, and could see mostly into both processing rooms. It was hot, almost too hot, but that was the price of sitting out of harm's way. From here, he could give directions, notify people of danger, and watch over how everything was going. Taking shots minimally, only if it would save a teammate. But one point needed to be sent out immediately, to the team's comm network (at least, those who bothered to check.)
"CDs in shipping room. Some sort of magic laced into it, a bit more complex than a layman could handle. Handle at own risk. Clear out the gunfire and I can dispel. Else somebody else can do it."
------
The warehouse was full of orks and trolls, and the difference between them was immediately apparent. Orks dressed in leather and denim, holdout pistols at their waist. Obviously all workers. Three orks on the main floor, at least that the group could see from the front door. They all seemed to be fumbling for their guns, or else considering going in for a more familiar brawl. Aside from the three orks there were four trolls wandering the floor. Significantly more well armed and significantly less confused, they had all pulled out HK-G12 model assault rifles, levelling them steadily at anything that threatened them (currently a certain drug-addled Nartaki.) The trolls looked tough. Beyond the usual bone spurs riddling their large frame, bits of ceramic and plastic were evident, signs of obvious dermal plating under their kevlar vests. It was clear that these guys weren't here just to help lift boxes.
The CDs, now revealed to be in the shipping room, would be clear to anybody who looked at them, though as Recluse had pointed out, probably dangerous to the touch of a layman. In the middle of the shipping room was a single heavy skid of stacked CDs. Their rather plain packaging labelled them as "Reverend Michael's Sounds of Worship - 'The glory of our lord revealed through song!'"
The break room, now clear, fed into the super's office. It seemed empty, and the door was locked, but if somebody could get through those doors, that was liable to be where any papers, servers or terminals were. The hub of information for whoever owned these warehouses.
